


The Letter

by skruffie



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Abstraction, Devils, Gen, The Brass Embassy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:13:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22023889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skruffie/pseuds/skruffie
Summary: Casey decides to write to their estranged parents, trying to decide how to break the news about their aunt. How do you begin to explain that souls are real, and that hers is now gone?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	The Letter

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of the first pieces of non-roleplay writing I did for my Fallen London character, Casey Banning. In-game, I had failed to reach the inconvenient aunt in time before she relinquished her soul to the devils in the Brass Embassy. This also happened to occur on the date I later made for Casey's birthday (Nov 9th). This was originally written in 2013.

November, 1890

Crackling fire in the stove: check.

Animals fed and tended to: check.

Paper and inkwell: check and check.

Wine: of course, especially for the task ahead.

Without anything else to distract themselves with, Casey sighs and shuffles over to their writing desk, sitting down in the creaking chair before staring forlornly down at their paper. Excuses start to emerge immediately— _you don’t even know if they still live in Ely, what if they’re dead, what if the letter gets lost, it’s useless to even try, what if word gets around to_ –

No, it’s all nonsense. I would have wanted to know what happened if someone else had been the one to find James.

It’s a dreadful task, but necessity outweighs the fear.

Before they can change their mind, Casey dips their pen in the inkwell, keeping it submerged inside for a bit longer than necessary.

The first letters are thick and wet, soaking straight through the paper onto the remaining scraps underneath. Ignoring the tremble in their fingers, Casey forces their way through the first sentences, quickly realizing that they did not plan exactly what they were going to write; how does someone begin to explain the Embassy to people living on the Surface?

“ _Dear mother and father,_

_Receiving a letter like this so suddenly, and after such a period of reticence, must come as a shock and I ask that you please don’t disregard it._

_I remember when you spoke of London with disdain throughout my childhood, and must have heard everything from passing rumours to information that felt too far-fetched to be truth. I also ask that you put aside any thoughts you believe, or used to believe, about London and the world around you to receive the news that I am about to write._

_Dear Aunt Mary had a difficult time believing it too, as you know, until she came here and saw it all for herself. I still don’t understand how she knew to look for me here, but there was one evening when we crossed paths. Seeing a familiar face on these dark streets was jarring, but I find that her absence is even more so._ ”

Casey pauses there, allowing a moment for them to try to contemplate how their parents would react to knowing what happens under the surface. All the stories and warnings from their childhood about Hell turned out to be mostly true, and it would be immensely satisfying to watch their expressions on finding out what had to be changed in their usual theology…

Satisfying under different circumstances, of course.

The hope of their parents understanding how society works in London, however, was thin at best. Casey stops writing for several long moments, completely stuck on how to break the news of Mary’s soullessness. There was really no delicate way to say that 1. yes, the human soul is real and 2. aunt Mary lost hers to a particularly persuasive devil.

“ _Some time ago, aunt Mary found the delights of London to be intoxicating, and the amount of time when I stopped hearing from her would increase. One night turned to three. Three turned to a week. Finally, I stopped seeing her altogether, and have not seen her since.”_ They stop to test the weight of their lie, finding it surprisingly more light than they imagined.

_“I’ve not received any word from Constables or otherwise on her re-appearance, and the time has come to where my worst fear feels closer to reality. Almost three have now passed without word or sight from Mary, and I inform you that I’m certain she’s passed on. London is a city wrought with crime and horror, and to assume the worst has happened eases the burden of a hope that, to be honest, would be fruitless. I am so sorry to have to tell you in this way. The package that this letter accompanies are the few belongings I still have of hers. This is what is left of her—do not attempt to come to London. Do NOT attempt to come find her, or me. She is gone, and I will not be returning. I beg you, stay in Ely. Tell the rest of the family of what happened to her. Do whatever you must, but I implore you to stay on the Surface._

_Do not send Vincent for me, either._ ”

Casey pauses once more, the tip of the pen hovering above the surface of the page. It would certainly be an abrupt ending to the letter, but they could not think of any better way. The likelihood of their parents sending him Neath-bound seemed slim, but a stern warning was still in order. A curious, nervous prickle rushes through their core when they sign the letter.

_“Regards, your Cassandra_ ”

Casey finishes off the last of their wine in a hasty gulp, casually skimming the letter for errors before folding it into an unsealed envelope. The meager package of their aunt’s belongings is already sitting on the bed, waiting to be wrapped. They stand up and walk over to the small pile, dropping the letter on top of a folded-up bolt of cloth (a scarf—a luxury she allowed herself from the bohemians—a cross necklace, folded up into the cloth somewhere, an unfinished letter that never made it to the surface before Mary got wrapped up in the affairs of the Embassy) before wrapping the entire lot up in thick, plain paper. After an additional layer and neat tie-job with the twine, Casey writes the address and sits down on the edge of the bed. They’d have to go searching for a stamp in the morning before it’s sent off to the surface.

There. Relatively painless. Less like an ache and more like a small splinter, really. Casey takes a breath and starts to plan for what happens next.


End file.
